


Sparring

by poisontaster



Series: Sateda Dean [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Military Backstory, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-01
Updated: 2007-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5188478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Ronon's job to break Dean is, but Dean isn't the only one breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparring

Ronon draws back with a hiss to the shine of Dean's bright smile. Blood gleams on Ronon's forearm, darkly crimson.

"Ha!"

"It's only a scratch." Ronon falls back to the ready, spinning his sword lightly to test the pull against his wound.

"Lucky for you," Dean answers hotly, circling to the left. He's learned better, in the past few months, than to let his guard down; his sword stays up, and his weight stays on the balls of his feet. Despite his gleeful grin, his eyes stay wary, locked on Ronon's face.  
  
Ronon waits until Dean maneuvers six more steps sunward, until he can tilt his sword into its rays. Dean squints against the sudden glare…and Ronon moves, crossing the few feet of yard sand between them. Dean's riposte is slow and Ronon's blade dips under his to wrench the sword from Dean's fingers. He reverses his blade and drives the hilt hard into the boy's diaphragm.

Dean's put on weight—muscle—since he's begun training, but the blow still drives Dean back, stumbling, into the dirt.

"And _that_ is what cocky gets you, young blood." Ronon's not tired, though they've been sparring a long time and the sun's beating straight down on the little court. He's ready to quit for a while and sit in the shade before he's got to report in for his watch shift. He looks down at Dean, floured in dust and damp with sweat. Dean sits up and makes a face back at him, a familiar mix of pissed and sheepish. He's bitten his lip, a bead of crimson that dissolves on the tip of his tongue as he licks it away. Ronon inhales.

Well. Maybe not _just_ sit.

Ronon scoops up the two bottles of water he left sitting in the narrow shade of the overhead awning and slings one at Dean. Dean fields it one-handed and then hands off his practice sword into Ronon's outstretched fingers. Ronon replaces them in the splintering wood rack nailed to the stucco. The kid empties about half his water over his head and sputters like a surprised cat.

Ronon snorts, leaning against one of the awning's supports and glad to be at rest. The water in the bottle is lukewarm and utterly delicious as it flows down his dry throat.  
  
"Ronon, are…" Dean clears his throat and Ronon looks sidelong at him. Dean's fingers fist the cloth of his pants then relax, smoothing the cloth nervously. "Are you going to fuck me?"

Ronon chokes a little on his water, spewing over his chin. "What?"

Dean's head ducks and Ronon watches his visible skin redden blotchily. Which makes Ronon think of the rest of him, the parts not immediately visible and his stomach growls like he's hungry. "It's just…" Dean shrugs, still focused on his own bare feet. "That's what they said you'd do. Break me in."

Ronon's gut gives a lurch of misgiving at the same time his cock stirs in his pants. At fifteen, Dean's long past the age he should've fucked _someone_ , boy or girl, but his duty to his father and brother had weighed heavy enough that Dean had never found the time or opportunity. He's untouched and that makes this all mean so much more than it _should_.

Ronon's playing with fire; he knows this. Problem is, Ronon's always liked fire.

"Is that what you want?" he asks casually, because this needs to stay casual. It doesn't stop him from crouching, crowding into Dean's space and watching those green eyes dilate. "To be broken in?" He kicks one of Dean's legs a little wide, steps between them and tugs one of the short twists that Dean's started growing in not-so-subtle emulation of him. "You want me to fuck you, Dean?"

He doesn’t know what he expects; Dean's at that stage where he's not quite the green country boy he started out as, but he's not rawhide either. What Ronon doesn't expect is the speed or familiarity of Dean's hand, reaching between his legs to cup his cock or the easy honesty in Dean's face and voice when he says clearly, "Yes. I want that very much."

* * *

Ronon goes slow.  
  
He goes so fucking slow. Because there's something about Dean. Something about the way Dean looks at him, trusts him, lets Ronon show him whatever new-to-Dean sex thing Ronon brings up. Something about the way Dean talks about his father and his baby brother and sometimes, only when they're really drunk, his dead mother. Something that's there despite how smug and infuriating Dean is when he actually gets a decent hit in on Ronon and it _should_ make Ronon want to teach the bony little snotrag a lesson. Wring unwilling pleasure from Dean's body and make him hurt so good.  
  
But something about Dean makes Ronon want...want to go slow. Ronon wants to go kind of soft and make it _good_. He wants to make Dean feel good almost more than Ronon wants to feel good himself. He wants to watch Dean's face crack open with shocked pleasure rather than just grab and rub and fuck into him as hard as Kell had fucked into Ronon those few years ago. Ronon wants to give Dean what Dean never expects, to be gentle in a way Ronon is mostly sure Dean's never gotten from anyone. About anything.

And it's worth it when Dean chokes off a gasping, kittenish, little noise and his big eyes clench closed then fly open, like he doesn't know how to feel, only that he _does_ feel.  
  
Ronon rubs a rough cheek against Dean's stomach, soft skin stretched over hard muscle. He twists his wrist a little, spreading the oil around Dean's hole as thoroughly as possible and shifting his hand in preparation for the second finger to slide in next to the first. "I know it's intense. It's supposed to be. Just breathe. I'm going to give you another one. You can take it. Just relax around me and let…" Ronon tongues around the swirl of Dean's flattened navel. "Let me in."

Dean's gasp is half-laughter, disbelieving, but Ronon's trained him well. His body obeys. Ronon finger slips deeper until his knuckles brush against the skin, stroking deep. Dean's shaking but he doesn't say _no_ , doesn't say _stop_. Ronon's not entirely sure Dean even knows how to say those words and the thought makes his pulse run a little faster, his cock throb just that much harder, like wood—like steel—between his legs. "G-good?" Dean asks, struggling for control of his voice.

Ronon huffs a laugh before he nips the skin and crooks his finger. Dean jumps, his cock spurting faintly pearly wetness. His moan is slow to come, drawn out, as Ronon toys with the inside of him before withdrawing and working in the second finger before the aftershock can fade. "You tell me."

Dean's foot slides a little on the mattress with the roll of his hips. Boy's starting to sweat. Good. Because Ronon plans on taking his time with this, spinning it out, making it last. "Oh, god," Dean answers faintly, turning his face away and color burning in his cheeks like the noonday sun.  
  
Ronon laughs again, "Yeah. Come on. You like it?"  
  
Dean's cheek is pressed into the cloth under his head but his eyes are wide open again. "Yes. Yes, I..."  
  
Ronon rubs firmly, steadily, at that knot inside. Dean chokes again; gasps and flails his hands out to the sides and moans like he's dying when Ronon says, "I'm gonna suck you now. It's okay if you come."  
  
"I thought... Thought we..."

Ronon drags his tongue in a leisurely slur up Dean's length; around his fingers, Dean spasms and tightens. "Oh, we're definitely going to get there," Ronon assures Dean, fucking his two fingers in and out in easy undulations. "But you're a young buck, yet." Another lick, this one winding his tongue around just the tip. "Got plenty of juice in you."

Ronon stops talking then, sliding his mouth down over Dean's cock. He thinks briefly about how long since it's been like this for him. He's only mentored a couple other recruits and always at Kell's behest. He never went to his knees for them. Just the opposite. It never occurred to him to miss it, the taste and heft of a man on his tongue, but he has. He likes Dean's taste and for the first time he has an inkling that it could be dangerous for him as much as Dean.

Dean's less hesitant now about threading his fingers deep into Ronon's hair, bitten fingernails dragging against Ronon's scalp. "God, Ronon, _god_..." Dean taps an urgent tattoo against Ronon's head with his fingertips; Ronon ignores it, humming and swallowing Dean deep, letting Dean roll and push on his hand. "More." Dean's voice is shredded, rusted out and weak. "Please... _god_ , Ronon...need more."

Dean cries out sharply then, hips trying to buck as his body tightens and shakes. Ronon pulls back to suck just the sensitive tip as Dean spurts and spills, bitter-fresh and raw. Carefully, he eases his fingers out with Dean's spasms, fumbling for the bottle of oil again.

"Fuck." Dean just lies there, absently petting Ronon's hair and face as he pants at the ceiling.  
  
"That's the idea, yeah." Ronon coats his fingers and moves to stroke around Dean's hole once more, eliciting a pleased whine and thighs that fall open invitingly. Dean's all pliable and hazy, riding the adrenaline and pleasure high; he'd let Ronon do pretty much anything to him right now. The thought makes Ronon have to stop, close his eyes against the sight of Dean laid out like this and duck his head, gripping the crease of Dean's thigh and hip with slippery fingers and holding his own cock tight at the base in his other hand.  
  
Ronon learned a lot at Kell's hands and while he's still a healthy seventeen year old man, he has more _control_ than this, damn it. Kell had liked to test him, make him wait for it. Endurance and patience in the face of frustration. Ronon was never that great at patience but endurance…he is _not_ going to come all over this kid's belly before even getting inside.  
  
Dean's head comes up, neck wobbly and strained. "Ronon? Is it...?"  
  
"Yeah," Ronon grits out as he looks up to Dean's face again. "You're just...hot. Like this. Real hot. "  
  
Dean smirks in that ridiculous, infuriatingly smug way he has and _undulates_ , stretching his arms straight over his head and rolling his hips up into Ronon's hand, tilting his whole body open wide and rippling with new muscle and man-growth. "You like?"  
  
Oh _come on_. "You know I do."

Dean tilts his chin at Ronon, not quite a challenge and totally an invitation. "Show me."

Ronon surges up Dean's body to fasten his lips and teeth on the place on Dean's neck where someday his brand will rest. He doesn't question anymore that it someday will; Dean is as born to this—soldiering, serving—as Ronon himself. Dean will be good. And he'll remember Ronon's hand on him, shaping him into a man. Dean sucks a breath in, surprised pleasure-pain, and tilts his head back in surrender.

Ronon's hand is still on his cock, still gripping himself punishingly. He rubs against Dean briefly, then guides himself lower. Dean writhes again, desperate for friction, trying to help. Ronon growls and bites harder and Dean stills, panting loud, whimpering a little. Ronon breathes deep and the head of his cock brushes Dean, feels him pulse, shuddering in want and lingering fear. Ronon can't stand it anymore; his hips snap forward, forcing the grudging muscle apart, forcing Dean to take him in a single, long thrust.

Dean's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His body arches and tightens, tight as a bowstring and Ronon holds, soothing the dark bruise he left on Dean's throat with gentle swipes of his tongue. "You can do it," he murmurs in between, kneading one of the boy's strong, wiry thighs. "You can take it. Take the pain and put it away from you. Don't let it control you."

"Y-yes." Dean's nod is shaky, uncertain, but after a moment, he breathes out and Ronon can feel him deliberately and consciously relax. Ronon slips a little deeper inside him, clinging, burning heat and flexing muscle that could make him lose his mind and concentration if he thinks about it for too long. "Fuck," Dean hisses, struggling to ease down more, accept more, take more. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ " He reaches out and grabs Ronon's bicep in hard, unforgiving fingers. "Okay, _move_."

Ronon thinks Dean isn't quite ready, but he takes him at his word and moves his hips and thighs in slow, careful rocks, letting Dean get used to the motion, the feeling, the cock spreading him apart and open. Dean's fingers dig harder into Ronon's arm and in the sheet, his other hand clutches the cotton sheet desperately, shudders running from heels to crown and back as Ronon fucks him.  
  
Ronon pushes closer with his knees, forces Dean's body up to meet his thrusts. The angle inside Dean changes and his silent pants turn into strangled, gasping moans. Ronon smiles against Dean's throat, feeling the boy's pulse, fast and hammering, on his lips. "Yeah." He bites again, gentler this time, but worrying the skin between his teeth, making new bruises. "You're all right, little brother." Another shift, pushing Dean's left thigh higher and further out. "Tell me. Tell me how it feels."

"G-good," Dean chokes immediately. "Oh…oh, Ronon, _fuck_ , it's so good…"

Again Ronon's mind flits to the times he's done this before, giving and receiving. He wasn't a virgin when he came to the army, even young as he'd been, but Kell had been his first man and even now he can feel the fierce, iron-sharp pride of being allowed to serve, at being the favorite. He wraps the blunt ends of Dean's twists around his hand and tugs, making Dean's neck bow taut.

Dean's teeth clack shut, words dying into a quiet, wordless keen. It's not protest and his cock spurts a little more wetness between them, slick and hot as blood. Ronon loses the rhythm and he slams into Dean hard, solid rebounds of bone and muscle.

"This is Sateda," Ronon hisses into Dean's ear, holding the boy tensed between his fist and his cock, helpless beneath the weight of his body. "Sateda owns this body and any pleasure you feel, any good thing that comes to you, comes from Her hand." It's awkward but he braces himself on the mattress with the hand tangled in Dean's hair and works the other between them, grasping Dean's cock in firm, rough fingers. _"Open your eyes."_

Dean's eyelids snap up, the pupils behind them dazzling and wild, barely coherent.

"Do you understand?" Ronon's losing traction on the sheets; he shifts his hand again and watches Dean wince as it pulls all the way to his scalp. _"Do you understand?"_

"I…" Dean's eyes flutter as he struggles to keep them open, shoulders and neck trying to arch against Ronon's weight on his hair. "I under…under _stand_."

"Good." And then Ronon twists even closer, swiveling and grinding his cock deep in Dean's body and pressing his lips right to the curve of Dean's ear before he grits out, "Now _come_."

Dean's cry is startled and loud, shocked out of him by the instant obedience of his body as he jerks and spurts across Ronon's belly, thick and viscid. It's unbelievably hot and as heady as Ronon imagines smoking vapors must be; Ronon wants to come right then into the twisting, convulsing muscle of Dean's body, but it takes him another dozen or more jerking, shallow thrusts before he can, the breath going out of him like he's been punched.

When it's over, Ronon knows he should pull out, and roughly, letting Dean feel the emptiness. If this was still the object lesson it's supposed to be, he would. But instead, he lets Dean pull him down to his mouth, exchanging lazy licks and soft, sucking kisses. He lets Dean wander his skin with his hands, spreading goose bumps like oil. Dean makes soft noises in his throat, eager, greedy, even though he's going slack, halfway to sleeping. Ronon feels the seductive pull of drowsiness himself but he can't and won't allow himself to sleep here, like this.

Dean doesn't protest or resist when Ronon disentangles himself, sprawled wide and loose across the sheets, cock spent and limp on his thigh. Ronon doesn't think he's ever seen a man as beautiful as Dean and he feels warmth kindle low in his groin and belly when he looks at Dean all fucked out and knows that he did that. That Dean is his for the taking, if he wants. It makes him kneel on the bed again, Dean watching him from beneath his eyelashes. He reaches between Dean's legs—Dean spreading his thighs helpfully—and rubs across Dean's hole, feeling heat and his own wetness. Dean whines a little but he doesn't move away, mouth open a little as he pants.

Kell said to Ronon once, "Wars do not end in a clash of arms." It had been early in his training, not long after his own breaking in and Ronon hadn't understood. Kell only laughed and turned him on his belly again. He never mentioned it again and Ronon's never had the courage to ask him about it. But he remembered. And he thinks now, maybe, he understands.

Not that this is over; there will be final salvos and rearguard attacks, because pride and stubbornness dictate that he can't and won't surrender, but those are only single battles in a war already lost.

"Does it hurt?" His voice is rough, covering the churn of his stomach, the rising speed of his heart.

Dean arches a little, green flashing from under his lashes like lamp-lit glass. "Not…not really."

"You're going to be sore tomorrow."

"I don't mind." Dean draws one leg up to plant his foot flat on the mattress, giving himself the leverage to push down into Ronon's touch. He turns his head toward Ronon and opens his eyes fully. "It won't… I won't let it affect my work, sir."

The 'sir' is a nice touch. Ronon's mouth quirks, the knowledge between them that they're no longer just talking about the rough fuck. He lets his finger dip into Dean, just a little, and watches the shudder that runs through Dean's skin.

Gods, he is fucked. He is so _fucked_.

Ronon harrumphs a little in his throat, unsure whether it's a cough or a laugh. "It'd better not, recruit."

Dean's smile is slow but bright—brilliant—as is his laugh. He reaches for Ronon and Ronon lets Dean pull him down.


End file.
